THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    CZAR. 

Thomaa  Bailey  Aldrich's  poem.  "  Ba- 
tuschka  "  ("  Little  Father,"  or  "  Dear  Little 
Father  "),  a  term  applied  to  the  czar  in  Rus- 
sian folksong,  has  a  timeliness  which  at  the 
present  moment  will  be  appreciated  by  every 
reader.  THE  TRIBUNE  reprints  it  here  by 
permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.: 

BATUSCHKA. 
From  yonder  gilded  minaret 
Beside  the  steel  blue  Neva  set 
I  faintly  catch,  from  time  to  time, 
The  sweet,  aerial  midnight  chime, 
"  God.  save  the  czar!" 

Above  the  ravelins  and  the  moats 
Of  the  white  citadel  it  floats; 
And  men  in  dungeons  far  beneath 
Listen,  and  pray,  and  gnash  their  teeth — 
"  God  save  the  czar!" 

The  soft  reiterations  sweep 
Across   the   horror   of  their  sleep, 
As  if  some  daemon  in  his  glee 
Were  mocking  at  their  misery — 
"God  save  the  czar!" 

In  his  red  palace  over  there, 
Wakeful,   he  needs  must  hear  the  prayer. 
How  can  it  drown  the  broken  cries 
Wrunff  from  his  children's  agonies? 
"  God  save  the  czar!" 

Father  they  called  him  from  of  old— 
Batuschka!— how  his  heart  is  cold! 
Wait  till  a  million  scourged  men 
Rise  in  their  awful  might,  and  then 
God    save  the  czar! 


MR.  ALDRICH'S  WRITINGS. 


L 

MAEJORIE  DAW  AND  OTHER  PEOPLE. 

In  Paper,  $1.00;  Cloth,  $1.50. 

n. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY.. 

Cloth,  $  1.50. 

m 

PRUDENCE  PALFREY. 

In  Paper,  $  i.oo  ;   Cloth,  1 1.50. 
TV. 

CLOTH  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Cloth,  1 1-50. 
V. 

FLOWER  AND  THORN. 

Cloth,  $1.25. 


JAMES    R.  OSGOOD    &    CO., 
PUBLISHERS. 


FLOWER  AND  THORN 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


FLOWER  AND  THORN 


LATER   POEMS 


BOSTON 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY 

Late  Ticknor  8c  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1877 


COPYRIGHT,  1876. 
BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


\  T  Shiraz,  in  a  sultan's  garden,  stood 

A  tree  whereon  a  curious  apple  grew, 
One  side  like  honey,  and  one  side  like  rue. 

Thus  sweet  and  bitter  is  the  life  of  man, 
The  sultan  said,  for  thus  together  grow 
Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 

Herewith  together  you  have  Flower  and  Thorn, 
Both  rose  and  brier,  for  thus  together  grow 
Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 


736295 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

PACK 

SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 13 

II. 
MIANTOWONA. 

MlANTOWONA 25 

III. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI. 
THE  LEGEND  OP  ARA-CCELI 39 

IV. 
INTERLUDES. 

DESTINY 65 

UNSUNG 66 

FROST-WORK 68 

Rococo 69 

LANDSCAPE 70 

IDENTITY 71 

NOCTURNE 72 

A  SNOW-FLAKE      .                                                       .  73 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

ACROSS  THE  STREET 74 

RENCONTRE 76 

AN  UNTIMELY  THOUGHT 77 

RONDEAU 79 

LATAKIA 80 

A  WINTER-PIECE 82 

QUATRAINS : 

Day  and  Night 83 

Maple  Leaves          .......  83 

A  Child's  Grave 84 

Pessimist  and  Optimist 84 

Grace  and  Strength 84 

Among  the  Pines 85 

From  the  Spanish 85 

Moonrise  at  Sea 85 

Masks 86 

Coquette 86 

Epitaphs 86 

Popularity 87 

Human  Ignorance       .......  87 

Spendthrift 87 

The  Iron  Age 88 

On  reading 88 

The  Rose 88 

From  Eastern  Sources 89 

The  Parcse 90 

FABLE 91 

PALINODE 93 

V. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS,  ETC. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS 97 

ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  op  MINERVA          .        .        .  101 


CONTENTS.  IX 

THE  GUERDON 105 

LOST  AT  SEA 109 

AN  OLD  CASTLE 112 

IN  AN  ATELIER 116 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY 121 

TITA'S  TEARS 123 

THE  KING'S  WINE 127 

DIRGE 129 

THE  PIAZZA  OF  ST.  MARK  AT  MIDNIGHT        .        .        .  132 

THORWALDSEN 134 

VI. 

SONNETS. 

"  Touched  with  the  delicate  green  of  early  May  "  .        .        .  137 

"  Thus  spake  his  dust,  so  seemed  it  as  I  read  "  .        .         .  138 

"  Herewith  I  send  you  three  pressed  withered  flowers  "  .         .  139 

"  Stand  here  and  look,  and  softly  hold  your  breath  "  .        .  140 

"  You  by  the  Arno  shape  your  marble  dream  "...  141 

"While  men  pay  reverence  to  mighty  things"  .        .         .  142 

"  Enamored  architect  of  airy  rhyme  " 143 

"  They  never  crowned  him,  never  knew  his  worth  "  .        .  144 

"  In  scarlet  clusters  o'er  the  gray  stone-wall "...  145 

"  Yonder  we  see  it  from  the  steamer's  deck  "    .        .        .  146 

"  While  yet  my  lip  was  breathing  youth's  first  breath  "  .         .  147 

"  When  to  soft  Sleep  we  give  ourselves  away  "  .        .        .  148 


I, 

SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 
I. 

'TVEE  long  years  come  and  go, 

And  the  Past, 

The  sorrowful,  splendid  Past, 
With  its  glory  and  its  woe, 
Seems  never  to  have  been. 
The  bugle's  taunting  blast 
Has  died  away  by  Southern  ford  and  glen : 
The  mock-bird  sings  unfrightened  in  its  dell; 
The  ensanguined  stream  flows  pure  again ; 
Where  once  the  hissing  death-bolt  fell, 
And  all  along  the  artillery's  level  lines 

Leapt  flames  of  hell, 
The  farmer  smiles  upon  the  sprouting  grain, 

And  tends  his  vines. 


14  SPRING  IN   NEW   ENGLAND. 

Seems  never  to  have  been  ? 
0  sombre  days  and  grand, 

How  ye  crowd  back  once  more, 
Seeing  our  heroes'  graves  are  green 
By  the  Potomac  and  the  Cumberland, 
And  in  the  valley  of  the  Shenandoah! 

II. 

Now  while  the  pale  arbutus  in  our  woods 
Wakes  to  faint  life  beneath  the  dead  year's  leaves, 
And  the  bleak  North  lets  loose  its  wailing  broods 
Of  winds  upon  us,  and  the  gray  sea  grieves 
Along  our  coast ;  while  yet  the  Winter's  hand 
Heavily  presses  on  New  England's  heart, 
And  Spring  averts  the  sunshine  of  her  eyes 
Lest  some  vain  cowslip  should  untimely  start  — 
While  we  are  housed  in  this  rude  season's  gloom, 

In  this  rude  land, 

Bereft  of  warmth  and  bloom, 
We  know,  far  off  beneath  the  Southern  skies, 
Where  the  flush  blossoms  mock  our  drifts  of  snow 


SPRING   IN   NEW   ENGLAND.  15 

And  the  lithe  vine  unfolds  its  emerald  sheen  — 
On  many  a  sunny  hillside  there,  we  know 
Our  heroes'  graves  are  green. 

III. 

The  long  years  come,  but  they 

Come  not  again ! 
Through  vapors  dense  and  gray 

Steals  back  the  May, 
But  they  come  not  again  — 

Swept  by  the  battle's  fiery  breath 
Down  unknown  ways  of  death. 
How  can  our  fancies  help  but  go 
Out  from  this  realm  of  mist  and  rain, 
Out  from  this  realm  of  sleet  and  snow, 
When  the  first  Southern  violets  blow? 

rv. 

While  yet  the  year  is  young 
Many  a  garland  shall  be  hung 
In  our  gardens  of  the  dead; 


16  SPRING   IN   NEW   ENGLAND. 

On  obelisk  and  urn 

Shall  the  lilac's  purple  burn, 

And  the  wild-rose  leaves  be  shed. 
And  afar  in  the  woodland  ways, 
Through  the  rustic  church-yard  gate 
Matrons  and  maidens  shall  pass, 
Striplings  and  white-haired  men, 
And,  spreading  aside  the  grass, 
Linger  at  name  and  date, 
Remembering  old,  old  days  ! 
And  the  lettering  on  each  stone 
Where  the  mould's  green  breath  has  blown 
Tears  shall  wash  clear  again! 

V. 

But  far  away  to  the  South,  in  the  sultry,  stricken  land  — 
On  the  banks  of  silvery  streams  gurgling  among  their 

reeds, 
By  many  a  drear  morass,  where  the  long-necked  pelican 

feeds, 
By  many  a  dark  bayou,  and  blinding  dune  of  sand, 


SPRING    IN    NEW   ENGLAND.  17 

By  many  a  cypress  swamp  where  the  cayman  seeks  its 
prey, 

In  many  a  moss-hung  wood,  the  twilight's  haunt  by  day, 

And  down  where  the  land's  parched  lip  drinks  at  the 
salt  sea-waves, 

And  the  ghostly  sails  glide  by  —  there  are  piteous  name- 
less graves. 

Their  names  no  tongue  may  tell,. 
Buried  there  where  they  fell, 
The  bravest  of  our  braves ! 
Never  sweetheart,  or  friend, 

Wan  pale  mother,  or  bride, 
Over  these  mounds  shall  bend, 

Tenderly  putting  aside 
The  uuremembering  grass! 

Never  the  votive  wreath 

For  the  unknown  brows  beneath, 
Never  a  tear,  alas ! 
How  can  our  fancies  help  but  go 
Out  from  this  realm  of  mist  and  rain, 


18  SPRING   IN   NEW   ENGLAND. 

Out  from  this  realm  of  sleet  and  snow, 
When  the  first  Southern  violets  blow? 
How  must  our  thought  bend  over  them, 
Blessing  the  flowers  that  cover  them  — 
Piteous,  nameless  graves! 

VI. 

Ah,  but  the  life  they  gave 
Is  not  shut  in  the  grave : 
The  valorous  spirits  freed 
Live  in  the  vital  deed ! 
Marble  shall  crumble  to  dust, 
Plinth  of  bronze  and  of  stone, 
Carved  escutcheon  and  crest  — 
Silently,  one  by  one, 
The  sculptured  lilies  fall: 
Softly  the  tooth  of  the  rust 
Gnaws  through  the  brazen  shield : 
Broken,  and  covered  with  stains, 
The  crossed  stone  swords  must  yield : 
Mined  by  the  frost  and  the  drouth, 


SPRING   IN  NEW  ENGLAND.  19 

Smitten  by  north  and  south, 
Smitten  by  east  and  west, 
Down  comes  column  and  all! 
But  the  great  deed  remains. 

VII. 

When  we  remember  how  they  died  — 

In  dark  ravine  and  on  the  mountain-side, 

In  leaguered  fort  and  fire-encircled  town, 

Upon  the  gun-boat's  splintered  deck, 

And  where  the  iron  ships  went  down  — 

How  their  dear  lives  were  spent, 

In  the  crushed  and  reddened  wreck, 

By  lone  lagoons  and  streams, 

In  the  weary  hospital-tent, 

In  the  cockpit's  crowded  hive  — 

How  they  languished  and  died 

In  the  black  stockades  —  it  seems 

Ignoble  to  be  alive! 

Tears  will  well  to  our  eyes, 

And  the  bitter  doubt  will  rise  — 


20  SPRING   IN    NEW   ENGLAND. 

But  hush!  for  the  strife  is  done, 

Forgiven  are  wound  and  scar; 

The  fight  was  fought  and  won 

Long  since,  on  sea  and  shore, 

And  every  scattered  star 

Set  in  the  blue  once  more: 

We  are  one  as  before, 

With  the  blot  from  our  scutcheon  gone! 

VIII. 

So  let  our  heroes  rest 
Upon  your  sunny  breast: 

Keep  them,  0  South,  our  tender  hearts  and  true, 
Keep  them,  0  South,  and  learn  to  hold  them  dear 
From  year  to  year ! 

Never  forget, 

Dying  for  us,  they  died  for  you. 
This  hallowed  dust  should  knit  us  closer  vet. 


SPRING   IN    NEW    ENGLAND.  21 

IX. 

Hark !  't  is  the  bluebird's  venturous  strain 
High  on  the  old  fringed  elm  at  the  gate  — 

Sweet-voiced,  valiant  on  the  swaying  bough, 

Alert,  elate, 

Dodging  the  fitful  spits  of  snow, 
New  England's  poet-laureate 
Telling  us  Spring  has  come  again! 


n, 
MIANTOWONA. 


MIANTOWONA. 
i. 

T  ONG  ere  the  Pale  Face 

Crossed  the  Great  Water, 
Miantowona 

Passed,  with  her  beauty, 
Into  a  legend 
Pure  as  a  wild-flower 
Found  in  a  broken 
Ledge  by  the  seaside. 

Let  us  revere  them  — 
These  wildwood  legends, 
Born  of  the  camp-fire. 
Let  them  be  handed 
Down  to  our  children  — 


MIANTOWONA. 

Eichest  of  heirlooms. 
No  land  may  claim  them 
They  are  ours  only, 
Like  our  grand  rivers, 
Like  our  vast  prairies, 
Like  our  dead  heroes. 


MIANTOWONA.  27 


n. 

IN  the  pine-forest, 
Guarded  by  shadows, 
Lieth  the  haunted 
Pond  of  the  Eed  Men. 
Einged  by  the  emerald 
Mountains,  it  lies  there 
Like  an  untarnished 
Buckler  of  silver, 
Dropped  in  that  valley 
By  the  Great  Spirit! 
Weird  are  the  figures 
Traced  on  its  margins  — 
Vine-work  and  leaf-work, 
Down-drooping  fuchsias, 
Knots  of  sword-grasses, 
Moonlight  and  starlight, 


28  MIANTOWONA. 

Clouds  scudding  northward. 
Sometimes  an  eagle 
Flutters  across  it; 
Sometimes  a  single 
Star  on  its  bosom 
Nestles  till  morning. 

Far  in  the  ages, 

Miantowona, 

Kose  of  the  Hurons, 

Came  to  these  waters. 

Where  the  dank  greensward 

Slopes  to  the  pebbles, 

Miantowona 

Sat  in  her  anguish. 

Ice  to  her  maidens, 

Ice  to  the  chieftains, 

Fire  to  her  lover! 

Here  he  had  won  her, 

Here  they  had  parted, 

Here  could  her  tears  flow. 


MIANTOWONA.  29 

With  unwet  eyelash, 
Miantowona 
Nursed  her  old  father, 
Gray-eyed  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Soothed  his  complainings, 
Smiled  when  he  chid  her 
Vaguely  for  nothing  — 
He  was  so  weak  now, 
Like  a  shrunk  cedar 
White  with  the  hoar-frost. 
Sometimes  she  gently 
Linked  arms  with  maidens, 
Joined  in  their  dances: 
Not  with  her  people, 
Not  in  the  wigwam, 
Wept  for  her  lover. 

Ah!  who  was  like  him? 
Fleet  as  an  arrow, 
Strong  as  a  bison, 


30  MIANTOWONA. 

Lithe  as  a  panther, 
Soft  as  the  south-wind, 
Who  was  like  Wawah? 
There  is  one  other 
Stronger  and  fleeter, 
Bearing  no  wampum, 
Wearing  no  war-paint, 
Kuler  of  councils, 
Chief  of  the  war-path  — 
Who  can  gainsay  him, 
Who  can  defy  him? 
His  is  the  lightning, 
His  is  the  whirlwind, 
Let  us  be  humble, 
We  are  but  ashes  — 
'T  is  the  Great  Spirit ! 

Ever  at  nightfall 

Miantowona 

Strayed  from  the  lodges, 

Passed  through  the  shadows 


MIAKTOWONA.  31 

Into  the  forest: 
There  by  the  pond-side 
Spread  her  black  tresses 
Over  her  forehead. 
Sad  is  the  loon's  cry 
Heard  in  the  twilight; 
Sad  is  the  night-wind, 
Moaning  and  moaning; 
Sadder  the  stifled 
Sob  of  a  widow. 

Low  on  the  pebbles 
Murmured  the  water: 
Often  she  fancied 
It  was  young  Wawah 
Playing  the  reed-flute. 
Sometimes  a  dry  branch 
Snapped  in  the  forest: 
Then  she  rose,  startled, 
Buddy  as  sunrise, 
Warm  for  his  coming ! 


32  MIANTOWONA. 

But  when  he  came  not, 

Back  through  the  darkness, 

Half  broken-hearted, 

Miantowona 

Went  to  her  people. 

When  an  old  oak  dies, 
First  't  is  the  tree-tops, 
Then  the  low  branches, 
Then  the  gaunt  stem  goes : 
So  fell  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Chief  of  the  chieftains. 

Miantowona 
Wept  not,  but  softly 
Closed  the  sad  eyelids; 
With  her  own  fingers 
Fastened  the  deer-skin 
Over  his  shoulders; 
Then  laid  beside  him 


MIANTOWONA.  33 

Ash-bow  and  arrows, 
Pipe-bowl  and  wampum, 
Dried  corn  and  bear-meat  — 
All  that  was  needful 
On  the  long  journey. 
Thus  old  Tawanda, 
Went  to  the  hunting 
Grounds  of  the  Red  Man. 

Then,  as  the  dirges 
Rose  from  the  village, 
Miantowona 

Stole  from  the  mourners, 
Stole  through  the  cornfields, 
Passed  like  a  phantom 
Into  the  shadows 
Through  the  pine-forest. 

One  who  had  watched  her  — 
It  was  Nahoho, 
Loving  her  vainly  — 


34  MIANTOWONA. 

Saw,  as  she  passed  him, 
That  in  her  features 
Made  his  stout  heart  quail. 
He  could  but  follow. 
Quick  were  her  footsteps, 
Light  as  a  snow-flake, 
Leaving  no  traces 
On  the  white  clover. 

Like  a  trained  runner, 
Winner  of  prizes, 
Into  the  woodlands 
Plunged  the  young  chieftain. 
Once  he  abruptly 
Halted,  and  listened; 
Then  he  sped  forward 
Faster  and  faster 
Toward  the  bright  water. 
Breathless  he  reached  it. 
Why  did  he  crouch  then, 
Stark  as  a  statue? 


MIANTOWONA.  35 

What  did  he  see  there 
Could  so  appall  him? 
Only  a  circle 
Swiftly  expanding, 
Fading  before  him; 
But,  as  he  watched  it, 
Up  from  the  centre, 
Slowly,  superbly 
Hose  a  Pond-Lily. 

One  cry  of  wonder, 
Shrill  as  the  loon's  call, 
Bang  through  the  forest, 
Startling  the  silence, 
Startling  the  mourners 
Chanting  the  death-song. 
Forth  from  the  village, 
Flocking  together 
Came  all  the  Hurons  — 
Striplings  and  warriors, 
Maidens  and  old  men, 
Squaws  with  pappooses. 


36  MIANTOWONA. 

No  word  was  spoken : 
There  stood  the  Hurons 
On  the  dank  greensward, 
With  their  swart  faces 
Bowed  in  the  twilight. 
What  did  they  see  there? 
Only  a  Lily 
Rocked  on  the  azure 
Breast  of  the  water. 

Then  they  turned  sadly 
Each  to  the  other, 
Tenderly  murmuring, 
"  Miantowona ! " 
Soft  as  the  dew  falls 
Down  through  the  midnight, 
Cleaving  the  starlight, 
Echo  repeated, 
"  Miantowona ! " 


Ill, 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-C(ELI. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-C(ELI. 
I. 

T  OOKING  at  Fra  Gervasio, 

Wrinkled  and  withered  and  old  and  gray, 
A  dry  Franciscan  from  crown  to  toe, 
You  would  never  imagine,  by  any  chance, 
That,  in  the  convent  garden  one  day, 
He  spun  this  thread  of  golden  romance. 

Romance  to  me,  but  to  him,  indeed, 

'T  was  a  matter  that  did  not  hold  a  doubt ; 

A  miracle,  nothing  more  nor  less. 

Did  I  think  it  strange  that,  in  our  need, 

Leaning  from  Heaven  to  our  distress, 

The  Virgin  brought  such  things  about  — 

Gave  mute  things  speech,  made  dead  things  move  ?  • 

Mother  of  Mercy,  Lady  of  Love! 


40  THE    LEGEND    OF    ARA-CCELI. 

Besides,  I  might,  if  I  wished,  behold 
The  Bambino's  self  in  his  cloth  of  gold 
And  silver  tissue,  lying  in  state 
In  the  Sacristy.     Would  the  signer  wait? 

Whoever  will  go  to  Eome  may  see, 

In  the  chapel  of  the  Sacristy 

Of  Ara-Coeli,  the  Sainted  Child  — 

Garnished  from  throat  to  foot  with  rings 

And  brooches  and  precious  offerings, 

And  its  little  nose  kissed  quite  away 

By  dying  lips.     At  Epiphany, 

If  the  holy  winter  day  prove  mild, 

It  is  shown  to  the  wondering,  gaping  crowd 

On  the  church's  steps  —  held  high  aloft  — 

While  every  sinful  head  is  bowed, 

And  the  music  plays,  and  the  censers'  soft 

White  breath  ascends  like  silent  prayer. 

Many  a  beggar  kneeling  there, 
Tattered  and  hungry,  without  a  home, 


THE   LEGEND    OF   AKA-C(ELI.  41 

Would  not  envy  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
If  he,  the  beggar,  had  half  the  care 
Bestowed  on  him  that  falls  to  the  share 
Of  yonder  Image  —  for  you  must  know 
It  has  its  minions  to  come  and  go, 
Its  perfumed  chamber,  remote  and  still, 
Its  silken  couch,  and  its  jewelled  throne, 
And  a  special  carriage  of  its  own 
To  take  the  air  in,  when  it  will. 
And  though  it  may  neither  drink  nor  eat, 
By  a  nod  to  its  ghostly  seneschal 
It  could  have  of  the  choicest  wine  and  meat. 
Often  some  princess,  brown  and  tall, 
Comes,  and  unclasping  from  her  arm 
The  glittering  bracelet,  leaves  it,  warm 
With  her  throbbing  pulse,  at  the  Baby's  feet. 
Ah,  he  is  loved  by  high  and  low, 
Adored  alike  by  simple  and  wise. 
The  people  kneel  to  him  in  the  street. 
What  a  felicitous  lot  is  his  — 
To  lie  in  the  light  of  ladies'  eyes, 


42  THE   LEGEND   OF   ARA-CCELI. 

Petted  and  pampered,  and  never  to  know 

The  want  of  a  dozen  soldi  or  so ! 

And  what  does  he  do  for  all  of  this? 

What  does  the  little  Bambino  do? 

It  cures  the  sick,  and,  in  fact,  'tis  said 

Can  almost  bring  life  back  to  the  dead. 

Who  doubts  it?     Not  Fra  Gervasio. 

When  one  falls  ill,  it  is  left  alone 

For  a  while  with  one  —  and  the  fever 's  gone ! 

At  least,  't  was  once  so ;  but  to-day 
It  is  never  permitted,  unattended 
By  monk  or  priest,  to  work  its  lure 
At  sick  folks'  beds  —  all  that  was  ended 
By  one  poor  soul  whose  feeble  clay 
Satan  tempted  and  made  secure. 

It  was  touching  this  very  point  the  friar 
Told  me  the  legend,  that  afternoon, 
In  the  cloisteral  garden  all  on  fire 
With  scarlet  poppies  and  golden  stalks. 


THE   LEGEND   OP   ARA-CCELI.  43 

Here  and  there  on  the  sunny  walks, 

Startled  by  some  slight  sound  we  made, 

A  lizard,  awaking  from  its  swoon, 

Shot  like  an  arrow  into  the  shade. 

I  can  hear  the  fountain's  languorous  tune, 

(How  it  comes  back,  that  hour  in  June 

When  just  to  exist  was  joy  enough !) 

I  can  see  the  olives,  silvery-gray, 

The  carven  masonry  rich  with  stains, 

The  gothic  windows  with  lead-set  panes, 

The  flag-paved  cortile,  the  convent  grates, 

And  Pra  Gervasio  holding  his  snuff 

In  a  squirrel-like,  meditative  way 

'Twixt  finger  and  thumb.    But  the  Legend  waits. 


44  THE   LEGEND   OF  AKA-C(ELI. 


II. 

IT  was  long  ago  (so  long  ago 

That  Fra  Gervasio  did  not  know 

What  year  of  our  Lord),  there  came  to  Eome 

Across  the  Campagna's  flaming  red, 

A  certain  Filippo  and  his  wife  — 

Peasants,  and  very  newly  wed. 

In  the  happy  spring  and  blossom  of  life, 

When  the  light  heart  chirrups  to  lovers'  calls, 

These  two,  like  a  pair  of  birds,  had  come 

And  built  their  nest  'gainst  the  city's  walls. 

He,  with  his  scanty  garden-plots, 

Eaised  flowers  and  fruit  for  the  market-place, 

Where  she,  with  her  pensile,  flower-like  face  — 

Own  sister  to  her  forget-me-nots  — 

Played  merchant :  and  so  they  thrived  apace, 

In  humble  content,  with  humble  cares 


THE   LEGEND    OP   AKA-CCELI.  45 

And  modest  longings,  till,  unawares, 
Sorrow  crept  on  them;  for  to  their  nest 
Had  come  no  little  ones,  and  at  last, 
When  six  or  seven  summers  had  past, 
Seeing  no  baby  at  her  breast, 
The  husband  brooded,  and  then  grew  cold; 
Scolded  and  fretted  over  this  — 
Who  would  tend  them  when  they  were  old, 
And  palsied,  maybe,  sitting  alone, 
Hungry,  beside  the  cold  hearth- stone  ? 
Not  to  have  children,  like  the  rest! 
It  cankered  the  very  heart  of  bliss. 

Then  he  fell  into  indolent  ways, 

Neglecting  the  garden  for  days  and  days, 

Playing  at  mora,  drinking  wine, 

With  this  and  that  one  —  letting  the  vine 

Run  riot  and  die  for  want  of  care, 

And  the  choke- weeds  gather;  for  it  was  spring, 

When  everything  needed  nurturing. 

But  he  would  drowse  for  hours  in  the  sun, 


46  THE   LEGEND    OP   ARA-CCELI. 

Or  sit  on  the  broken  step  by  the  shed, 
Like  a  man  whose  honest  toil  is  done, 
Sullen,  with  never  a  word  to  spare, 
Or  a  word  that  were  better  all  unsaid. 

And  Nina,  so  light  of  thought  before, 

Singing  about  the  cottage  door 

In  her  mountain  dialect  —  sang  no  more ; 

But  came  and  went,  sad-faced  and  shy, 

Wishing,  at  times,  that  she  might  die, 

Brooding  and  fretting  in  her  turn. 

Often,  in  passing  along  the  street, 

Her  basket  of  flowers  poised,  peasant-wise, 

On  a  lustrous  braided  coil  of  her  hair, 

She  would  halt,  and  her  dusky  cheek  would  burn 

Like  a  poppy,  beholding  at  her  feet 

Some  stray  little  urchin,  dirty  and  bare. 

And  sudden  tears  would  spring  to  her  eyes 

That  the  tiny  waif  was  not  her  own, 

To  fondle,  and  kiss,  and  teach  to  pray. 

Then  she  passed  onward,  making  moan. 


THE    LEGEND    OF   ARA-CCELI.  4? 

Sometimes  she  would  stand  in  the  sunny  square, 
Like  a  slim  bronze  statue  of  Despair, 
Watching  the  children  at  their  play. 

In  the  broad  piazza  was  a  shrine, 

With  Our  Lady  holding  on  her  knee 

A  small  nude  waxen  effigy. 

Nina  passed  by  it  every  day, 

And  morn  and  even,  in  rain  or  shine, 

Repeated  an  ave  there.     "  Divine 

Mother,"  she  'd  cry,  as  she  turned  away, 

"  Sitting  in  paradise,  undefiled, 

O,  have  pity  on  my  distress  !  " 

Then  glancing  back  at  the  rosy  Child, 

She  would  cry  to  it,  in  her  helplessness, 

"  Pray  her  to  send  the  like  to  me !  " 

Now  once  as  she  knelt  before  the  saint, 

Lifting  her  hands  in  silent  plain, 

She  paled,  and  her  heavy  heart  grew  faint 

At  a  thought  which  flashed  across  her  brain — 


48  THE    LEGEND    OF   ARA-C(ELI. 

The  blinding  thought  that,  perhaps  if  she 
Had  lived  in  the  world's  miraculous  morn, 
God  might  have  chosen  her  to  be 
The  mother  —  0  heavenly  ecstasy  !  — 
Of  the  little  babe  in  the  manger  born ! 
She,  too,  was  a  peasant  girl,  like  her, 
The  wife  of  the  lowly  carpenter ! 
Like  Joseph's  wife,  a  peasant  girl! 

Her  strange  little  head  was  in  a  whirl 

As  she  rose  from  her  knees  to  wander  home, 

Leaving  her  basket  at  the  shrine  j 

So  dazed  was  she,  she  scarcely  knew 

The  old  familiar  streets  of  Rome, 

Nor  whither  she  wished  to  go,  in  fine; 

But  wandered  on,  now  crept,  now  flew, 

In  the  gathering  twilight,  till  she  came 

Breathless,  bereft  of  sense  and  sight, 

To  the  gloomy  Arch  of  Constantine, 

And  there  they  found  her,  late  that  night, 

With  her  cheeks  like  snow  and  her  lips  like  flame! 


THE   LEGEND   OF   ARA-CCELI.  49 

Many  a  time  from  day  to  day, 

She  heard,  as  if  in  a  troubled  dream, 

Footsteps  around  her,  and  some  one  saying  — 

Was  it  Filippo  ?  —  "  Is  she  dead  ?  " 

Then  it  was  some  one  near  her  praying, 

And  she  was  drifting  —  drifting  away 

From  saints  and  martyrs  in  endless  glory  ! 

She  seemed  to  be  floating  down  a  stream, 

Yet  knew  she  was  lying  in  her  bed. 

The  fancy  held  her  that  she  had  died, 

And  this  was  her  soul  in  purgatory, 

Until,  one  morning,  two  holy  men 

From  the  convent  came,  and  laid  at  her  side 

The  Bambino.     Blessed  Virgin  !   then 

Nina  looked  up,  and  laughed,  and  wept, 

And  folded  it  close  to  her  heart,  and  slept. 

Slept  such  a  soft,  refreshing  sleep, 
That  when  she  awoke  her  eyes  had  taken 
That  hyaline  lustre,  dewy,  deep, 
Of  violets  when  they  first  awaken ; 


50  THE   LEGEND    OP   ARA-CCELI. 

And  the  half-unravelled,  fragile  thread 

Of  life  was  knitted  together  again. 

But  she  shrunk  with  sudden,  strange  new  pain, 

And  seemed  to  droop  like  a  flower,  the  day 

The  Capuchins  came,  with  solemn  tread, 

To  carry  the  Miracle  Child  away ! 


THE   LEGEND   OP  ABA-CCELI.  51 


ILL. 

EEE  spring  in  the  heart  of  pansies  burned, 
Or  the  buttercup  had  loosed  its  gold, 
Nina  was  busy  as  ever  of  old 
With  fireside  cares ;   but  was  not  the  same, 
For  from  the  hour  when  she  had  turned 
To  clasp  the  Image  the  fathers  brought 
To  her  dying-bed,  a  single  thought 
Had  taken  possession  of  her  brain : 
A  purpose,  as  steady  as  the  flame 
Of  a  lamp  in  some  cathedral  crypt, 
Had  lighted  her  on  her  bed  of  pain; 
The  thirst  and  the  fever,  they  had  slipt 
Away  like  visions,  but  this  had  stayed  — 
To  have  the  Bambino  brought  again, 
To  have  it,  and  keep  it  for  her  own  ! 


52  THE   LEGEND    OF   ARA-CCELI. 

That  was  the  secret  dream  which  made 

Life  for  her  now  —  in  the  streets,  alone, 

At  night,  and  morning,  and  when  she  prayed. 

How  should  she  wrest  it  from  the  hand 

Of  the  jealous  Church  ?    How  keep  the  Child  ? 

Flee  with  it  into  some  distant  land  — 

Like  mother  Mary  from  Herod's  ire? 

Ah,  well,  she  knew  not ;   she  only  knew 

It  was  written  down  in  the  Book  of  Fate 

That  she  should  have  her  heart's  desire, 

And  very  soon  now,  for  of  late, 

In  a  dream,  the  little  thing  had  smiled 

Up  in  her  face,  with  one  eye's  blue 

Peering  from  underneath  her  breast, 

"Which  the  baby  fingers  had  softly  prest 

Aside,  to  look  at  her !     Holy  one ! 

But  that  should  happen  ere  all  was  done. 

Lying  dark  in  the  woman's  mind  — 
Unknown,  like  a  seed  in  fallow  ground  — 


THE   LEGEND    OF   AKA-C(ELI.  53 

Was  the  germ  of  a  plan,  confused  and  blind 

At  first,  but  which,  as  the  weeks  rolled  round, 

Reached  light,  and  flowered,  —  a  subtile  flower, 

Deadly  as  nightshade.     In  that  same  hour 

She  sought  the  husband  and  said  to  him, 

With  crafty  tenderness  in  her  eyes 

And  treacherous  archings  of  her  brows, 

"  Filippo,  mio,  thou  lov'st  me  well  ? 

Truly  ?     Then  get  thee  to  the  house 

Of  the  long-haired  Jew  Ben  Eaphaim  — 

Seller  of  curious  tapestries, 

(Ah,  he  hath  everything  to  sell!) 

The  cunning  carver  of  images  — 

And  bid  him  to  carve  thee  to  the  life 

A  bamlinetto  like  that  they  gave 

In  my  arms,  to  hold  me  from  the  grave 

When  the  fever  pierced  me  like  a  knife. 

Perhaps,  if  we  set  the  image  there 

By  the  Cross,  the  saints  would  hear  the  prayer 

Which  in  all  these  years  they  have  not  heard." 


54  THE   LEGEND    OF   ARA-CCELI. 

Then  the  husband  went,  without  a  word, 
To  the  crowded  Ghetto ;   for  since  the  days 
Of  Nina's  illness,  the  man  had  been 
A  tender  husband  —  with  lover's  ways 
Striving,  as  best  he  might,  to  wean 
The  wife  from  her  sadness,  and  to  bring 
Back  to  the  home  whence  it  had  fled 
The  happiness  of  that  laughing  spring 
When  they,  like  a  pair  of  birds,  had  wed. 

The  image  !     It  was  a  woman's  whim  — 

They  were  full  of  whims.     But  what  to  him 

Were  a  dozen  pieces  of  silver  spent, 

If  it  made  her  happy  ?     And  so  he  went 

To  the  house  of  the  Jew  Ben  Eaphaim. 

And  the  carver  heard,  and  bowed,  and  smiled, 

And  fell  to  work  as  if  he  had  known 

The  thought  that  lay  in  the  woman's  brain, 

And  somehow  taken  it  for  his  own : 

For  even  before  the  month  was  flown 

He  had  carved  a  figure  so  like  the  Child 


THE   LEGEND   OF  ABA-C(ELI.  55 

Of  Ara-Coeli,  you  'd  not  have  told, 
Had  both  been  decked  with  jewel  and  chain 
And  dressed  alike  in  a  dress  of  gold, 
Which  was  the  true  one  of  the  twain. 

When  Nina  beheld  it  first,  her  heart 

Stood  still  with  wonder.     The  skilful  Jew 

Had  given  the  eyes  the  tender  blue, 

And  the  cheeks  the  delicate  olive  hue, 

And  the  form  almost  the  curve  and  line 

Of  the  Image  the  good  Apostle  made 

Immortal  with  his  miraculous  art, 

What  time  the  sculptor1  dreamed  in  the  shade 

Under  the  skies  of  Palestine. 

The  bright  new  coins  that  clinked  in  the  palm 

Of  the  carver  in  wood  were  blurred  and  dim 

Compared  with  the  eyes  that  looked  at  him 

1  According  to  the  monastic  legend,  the  Santissimo  Bamiino 
was  carved  by  a  pilgrim,  out  of  a  tree  -which  grew  on  the  Mount 
of  Olives,  and  painted  by  St.  Luke  while  the  pilgrim  was  sleep- 
ing over  his  work. 


56  THE  LEGEND   OF  ABA-C(ELI. 

From  the  low  sweet  brows,  so  seeming  calm; 
Then  he  went  his  way,  and  her  joy  broke  free, 
And  Filippo  smiled  to  hear  Nina  sing 
In  the  old,  old  fashion  —  carolling 
Like  a  very  thrush,  with  many  a  trill 
And  long-drawn,  flute-like,  honeyed  note, 
Till  the  birds  in  the  farthest  mulberry, 
Each  outstretching  its  amber  bill, 
Answered  her  with  melodious  throat. 

Thus  sped  two  days;    but  on  the  third 
Her  singing  ceased,  and  there  came  a  change 
As  of  death  on  Nina;    her  talk  grew  strange, 
Then  she  sunk  in  a  trance,  nor  spoke  nor  stirred ; 
And  the  husband,  wringing  his  hands,  dismayed, 
Watched  by  the  bed;    but  she  breathed  no  word 
That  night,  nor  until  the  morning  broke, 
When  she  roused  from  the  spell,  and  feebly  laid 
Her  hand  on  Filippo's  arm,  and  spoke : 
"Quickly,  Filippo!    get  thee  gone 
To  the  holy  fathers,  and  beg  them  send 


THE   LEGEND    OF   ARA-CCELI.  57 

The  Bambino  hither"  —  her  cheeks  were  wan 
And  her  eyes  like  coals — "O,  go,  my  friend, 
Or  all  is  said ! "     Through  the  morning's  gray 
Filippo  hurried,  like  one  distraught, 
To  the  monks,  and  told  his  tale;  and  they, 
Straight  after  matins,  came  and  brought 
The  Miracle  Child,  and  went  their  way. 

Once  more  in  her  arms  was  the  Infant  laid, 
After  these  weary  months,  once  more ! 
Yet  the  woman  seemed  like  a  thing  of  stone 
While  the  dark-robed  fathers  knelt  and  prayed ; 
But  the  instant  the  holy  friars  were  gone 
She  arose,  and  took  the  broidered  gown 
From  the  Baby  Christ,  and  the  yellow  crown 
And  the  votive  brooches  and  rings  it  wore, 
Till  the  little  figure,  so  gay  before 
In  its  princely  apparel,  stood  as  bare 
As  your  ungloved  hand.     With  tenderest  care, 
At  her  feet,  'twixt  blanket  and  counterpane, 
She  hid  the  Babe;    and  then,  reaching  down 


58  THE   LEGEND    OF   AKA-C(ELI. 

To  the  coffer  wherein  the  thing  had  lain, 

Drew  forth  Ben  Eaphaim's  manikin 

In  haste,  and  dressed  it  in  robe  and  crown, 

With  lace  and  bawble  and  diamond-pin. 

This  finished,  she  turned  to  stone  again, 

And  lay  as  one  would  have  thought  quite  dead, 

If  it  had  not  been  for  a  spot  of  red 

Upon  either  cheek.    At  the  close  of  day 

The  Capuchins  came,  with  solemn  tread, 

And  carried  the  false  bambino  away ! 

Over  the  vast  Campagna's  plain, 

At  sunset,  a  wind  began  to  blow 

(From  the  Apennines  it  came,  they  say), 

Softly  at  first,  and  then  to  grow  — 

As  the  twilight  gathered  and  hurried  by  — 

To  a  gale,  with  sudden  tumultuous  rain 

And  thunder  muttering  far  away. 

When  the  night  was  come,  from  the  blackened  sky 

The  spear-tongued  lightning  slipped  like  a  snake, 

And  the  great  clouds  clashed,  and  seemed  to  shake 


THE   LEGEND    OF   ARA-CCELT.  59 

The  earth  to  its  centre.     Then  swept  down 

Such  a  storm  as  was  never  seen  in  Home 

By  any  one  living  in  that  day. 

Not  a  soul  dared  venture  from  his  home, 

Not  a  soul  in  all  the  crowded  town. 

Dumb  beasts  dropped  dead,  with  terror,  in  stall; 

Great  chimney-stacks  were  overthrown, 

And  about  the  streets  the  tiles  were  blown 

Like  leaves  in  autumn.     A  fearful  night, 

With  ominous  voices  in  the  air! 

Indeed,  it  seemed  like  the  end  of  all. 

In  the  convent,  the  monks  for  very  fright 

Went  not  to  bed,  but  each  in  his  cell 

Counted  his  beads  by  the  taper's  light, 

Quaking  to  hear  the  dreadful  sounds, 

And  shrivelling  in  the  lightning's  glare. 

It  appeared  as  if  the  rivers  of  Hell 

Had  risen,  and  overleaped  their  bounds. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  at  the  convent  door, 
Above  the  tempest's  raving  and  roar 


60  THE   LEGEND   OF  ABA-COELI. 

Came  a  sudden  knocking !     Mother  of  Grace, 

What  desperate  wretch  was  forced  to  face 

Such  a  night  as  that  was  out-of-doors? 

Across  the  echoless,  stony  floors 

Into  the  windy  corridors 

The  monks  came  flocking,  and  down  the  stair, 

Silently,  glancing  each  at  each, 

As  if  they  had  lost  the  power  of  speech. 

Yes  —  it  was  some  one  knocking  there! 

And  then  —  strange  thing !  —  untouched  by  a  som 

The  bell  of  the  convent  'gan  to  toll ! 

It  curdled  the  blood  beneath  their  hair. 

Reaching  the  court,  the  brothers  stood 

Huddled  together,  pallid  and  mute, 

By  the  massive  door  of  iron-clamped  wood, 

Till  one  old  monk,  more  resolute 

Than  the  others  —  a  man  of  pious  will  — 

Stepped  forth,  and  letting  his  lantern  rest 

On  the  pavement,  crouched  upon  his  breast 


THE   LEGEND    OF   ARA-CCELI.  61 

And  peeped  through  a  chink  there  was  between 

The  cedar  door  and  the  sunken  sill. 

At  the  instant  a  flash  of  lightning  came, 

Seeming  to  wrap  the  world  in  flame. 

He  gave  but  a  glance,  and  straight  arose 

With  his  face  Ike  a  corpse's.     What  had  he  seen? 

Two  dripping,  little  pink-white  toes ! 

Then,  like  a  man  gone  suddenly  wild, 

He  tugged  at  the  bolts,  flung  down  the  chain, 

And  there,  in  the  night  and  wind  and  rain  — 

Shivering,  piteous,  and  forlorn, 

And  naked  as  ever  it  was  born  — 

On  the  threshold  stood  the  SAINTED  CHILD  ! 

"Since  then,"  said  Fra  Gervasio, 
"We  have  never  let  the  Bambino  go 
Unwatched  —  no,  not  by  a  prince's  bed. 
Ah,  signer,  it  made  a  dreadful  stir." 
"  And  the  woman  —  Nina  —  what  of  her  ? 
Had  she  no  story?"     He  bowed  his  head, 


62  THE   LEGEND   OF  ARA-C(ELI. 

And  knitting  his  meagre  fingers,  so  — 
"In  that  night  of  wind  and  wrath,"  said  he, 
"There  was  wrought  in  Eome  a  mystery. 
What  know  I,  signer?    They  found  her  dead!" 


IV, 
INTERLUDES. 


INTERLUDES. 


DESTINY. 

T^HKEE  roses,  wan  as  moonlight  and  weighed  down 

Each  with  its  loveliness  as  with  a  crown, 
Drooped  in  a  florist's  window  in  a  town. 

The  first  a  lover  bought.     It  lay  at  rest, 

Like  flower  on  flower,  that  night,  on  Beauty's  breast. 

The  second  rose,  as  virginal  and  fair, 
Shrunk  in  the  tangles  of  a  harlot's  hair. 

The  third,  a  widow,  with  new  grief  made  wild, 
Shut  in  the  icy  palm  of  her  dead  child. 


66  INTEKLUDES. 


UNSUNG. 

\  S  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes 

From  the  lips  of  the  white  rose, 
As  weird  as  the  elfin  lights 
That  glimmer  of  frosty  nights, 
As  wild  as  the  winds  that  tear 
The  curled  red  leaf  in  the  air, 
Is  the  song  I  have  never  sung. 

In  slumber,  a  hundred  times 
I  've  said  the  enchanted  rhymes, 
But  ere  I  open  my  eyes 
This  ghost  of  a  poem  flies; 
Of  the  interfluent  strains 
Not  even  a  note  remains : 
I  know  by  my  pulses'  beat 
It  was  something  wild  and  sweet, 


UNSUNG.  67 

And  my  heart  is  strangely  stirred 
By  an  unremembered  word! 

I  strive,  but  I  strive  in  vain, 
To  recall  the  lost  refrain. 
On  some  miraculous  day 
Perhaps  it  will  come  and  stay; 
In  some  unimagined  Spring 
I  may  find  my  voice,  and  sing 
The  song  I  have  never  sung. 


INTERLUDES. 


FROST-WORK. 

'"PHESE  winter  nights,  against  my  window-pane 

Nature  with  busy  pencil  draws  designs 
Of  ferns  and  blossoms  and  fine  spray  of  pines, 
Oak-leaf  and  acorn  and  fantastic  vines, 
Which  she  will  make  when  summer  comes  again  - 
Quaint  arabesques  in  argent,  flat  and  cold, 
Like  curious  Chinese  etchings  .  .  .  By  and  by, 
Walking  my  leafy  garden  as  of  old, 
These  frosty  fantasies  shall  charm  my  eye 
In  azure,  damask,  emerald,  and  gold. 


ROCOCO.  69 


EOCOCO. 

"OY  studying  my  lady's  eyes 

I  've  grown  so  learned  day  by  day, 
So  Machiavelian  in  this  wise, 
That  when  I  send  her  flowers,  I  say 

To  each  small  flower  (no  matter  what, 
Geranium,  pink,  or  tuberose, 
Syringa,  or  forget-me-not, 
Or  violet)  before  it  goes : 

"  Be  not  triumphant,  little  flower, 
When  on  her  haughty  heart  you  lie, 
But  modestly  enjoy  your  hour: 
She  '11  weary  of  you  by  and  by." 


70  INTERLUDES. 


LANDSCAPE. 

TWILIGHT. 

/^AUNT  shadows  stretch  along  the  hill; 

Cold  clouds  drift  slowly  west; 
Soft  flocks  of  vagrant  snow-flakes  fill 
The  redwing's  empty  nest. 

By  sunken  reefs  the  hoarse  sea  roars; 

Above  the  shelving  sands, 
Like  skeletons  the  sycamores 

Uplift  their  wasted  hands. 

The  air  is  full  of  hints  of  grief, 
Strange  voices  touched  with  pain  — 

The  pathos  of  the  falling  leaf 
And  rustling  of  the  rain. 

In  yonder  cottage  shines  a  light, 

Far-gleaming  like  a  gem  — 
Not  fairer  to  the  Rabbins'  sight 

Was  star  of  Bethlehem ! 


IDENTITY.  71 


IDENTITY. 

QOMEWHERE  —  in  desolate  wind-swept  space 

In  Twilight- land  —  in  No-man's-land  — 
Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 


"And  who  are  you?"  cried  one,  a-gape, 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 
"  I  know  not,"  said  the  second  Shape, 
"  I  only  died  last  night !  " 


72  INTERLUDES. 


NOCTURNE. 

ITALY. 

TTP  to  her  chamber  window 

A  slight  wire  trellis  goes, 
And  up  this  Romeo's  ladder 
Clambers  a  bold  white  rose. 

I  lounge  in  the  ilex  shadows, 

I  see  the  lady  lean, 
Unclasping  her  silken  girdle, 

The  curtain's  folds  between. 

She  smiles  on  her  white-rose  lover, 
She  reaches  out  her  hand 

And  helps  him  in  at  the  window  — 
I  see  it  where  I  stand ! 

To  her  scarlet  lip  she  holds  him, 
And  kisses  him  many  a  time  — 

Ah,  me!  it  was  he  that  won  her 
Because  he  dared  to  climb! 


A   SNOW-FLAKE.  73 


A  SNOW-FLAKE. 

/"\NCE  he  sang  of  summer, 

Nothing  but  the  summer; 
Now  he  sings  of  winter, 
Of  winter  bleak  and  drear: 
Just  because  there's  fallen 
A  snow-flake  on  his  forehead, 
He  must  go  and  fancy 
'Tis  winter  all  the  year! 


74  INTERLUDES. 


ACEOSS  THE  STREET. 

TTTITH  lash  on  cheek,  she  comes  and  goes; 
I  watch  her  when  she  little  knows: 

I  wonder  if  she  dreams  of  it. 
Sitting  and  working  at  my  rhymes, 
I  weave  into  my  verse  at  times 

Her  sunny  hair,  or  gleams  of  it. 

Upon  her  window-ledge  is  set 
A  box  of  flowering  mignonette; 

Morning  and  eve  she  tends  to  them  — 
The  senseless  flowers,  that  do  not  care 
About  that  loosened  strand  of  hair, 

As  prettily  she  bends  to  them. 

If  I  could  once  contrive  to  get 
Into  that  box  of  mignonette 


ACROSS   THE    STREET.  75 

Some  morning  when  she  tends  to  them  — 
She  comes !     I  see  the  rich  blood  rise 
From  throat  to  cheek!  —  down  go  the  eyes, 

Demurely,  as  she  bends  to  them ! 


76  INTERLUDES. 


KENCONTRE. 

''FOILING  across  the  Mer  de  Glace, 

I  thought  of,  longed  for  thee; 
What  miles  between  us  stretched,  alas!- 
What  miles  of  land  and  sea ! 

My  foe,  undreamed  of,  at  my  side 

Stood  suddenly,  like  Fate. 
For  those  who  love,  the  world  is  wide, 

But  not  for  those  who  hate. 


AN   UNTIMELY   THOUGHT.  77 


AN  UNTIMELY  THOUGHT. 

T  WONDEE  what  day  of  the  week  — 

I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year — 
Will  it  be  midnight,  or  morning, 
And  who  will  bend  over  my  bier? 

—  What  a  hideous  fancy  to  come 
As  I  wait,  at  the  foot  of  the  stair, 

While  Lilian  gives  the  last  touch 
To  her  robe,  or  the  rose  in  her  hair. 

Do  I  like  your  new  dress  —  pompadour? 

And  do  I  like  you?    On  my  life, 
You  are  eighteen,  and  not  a  day  more, 

And  have  not  been  six  years  my  wife. 

Those  two  rosy  boys  in  the  crib 

Up  stairs  are  not  ours,  to  be  sure!  — 


78  INTERLUDES. 

You  are  just  a  sweet  bride  in  her  bloom, 
All  sunshine,  and  snowy,  and  pure. 

As  the  carriage  rolls  down  the  dark  street 
The  little  wife  laughs  and  makes  cheer  — 

But  ...  I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year. 


RONDEAU.  79 


EONDEAU. 

T^HE  Summer  comes  and  the  Summer  goes; 
Wild-flowers  are  fringing  the  dusty  lanes, 
The  swallows  go  darting  through  fragrant  rains, 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden  —  it  snows. 

Dear  Heart,  our  lives  so  happily  flow, 
So  lightly  we  heed  the  flying  hours, 
We  only  know  Winter  is  gone  —  by  the  flowers, 

We  only  know  Winter  is  come  —  by  the  snow. 


80  INTERLUDES. 


LATAKIA. 


"IT THEN  all  the  panes  are  hung  with  frost, 

Wild  wizard-work  of  silver  lace, 
I  draw  my  sofa  on  the  rug 
Before  the  ancient  chimney-place. 
Upon  the  painted  tiles  are  mosques 
And  minarets,  and  here  and  there 
A  blind  muezzin  lifts  his  hands 
And  calls  the  faithful  unto  prayer. 
Folded  in  idle,  twilight  dreams, 
I  hear  the  hemlock  chirp  and  sing 
As  if  within  its  ruddy  core 
It  held  the  happy  heart  of  Spring. 
Ferdousi  never  sang  like  that, 
Nor  Saadi  grave,  nor  Hafiz  gay: 
I  lounge,  and  blow  white  rings  of  smoke, 
And  watch  them  rise  and  float  away. 


LATAKIA.  81 

II. 

The  curling  wreaths  like  turbans  seem 
Of  silent  slaves  that  come  and  go  — 
Or  Viziers,  packed  with  craft  and  crime, 
Whom  I  behead  from  time  to  time, 
With  pipe-stem,  at  a  single  blow. 

And  now  and  then  a  lingering  cloud 
Takes  gracious  form  at  my  desire, 
And  at  my  side  my  lady  stands, 
Unwinds  her  veil  with  snowy  hands  — 
A  shadowy  shape,  a  breath  of  fire ! 

0  Love,  if  you  were  only  here 
Beside  me  in  this  mellow  light, 
Though  all  the  bitter  winds  should  blow, 
And  all  the  ways  be  choked  with  snow, 
'T  would  be  a  true  Arabian  night ! 


INTERLUDES. 


A  WINTEEr-PIECE. 

Sous  le  voile  qui  vous  protege, 
Defiant  les  regards  jalou.x, 
Si  vous  sortez  par  cette  neige, 

Redoutez  vos  pieds  andalous. 

THEOPHILE  GA.DTIER. 

"OENEATH  the  heavy  veil  you  wear, 

Shielded  from  jealous  eyes  you  go; 
But  of  your  pretty  feet  have  care 
If  you  should  venture  through  the  snow. 

Howe'er  you  tread,  a  dainty  mould 
Betrays  that  light  foot  all  the  same; 
Upon  this  glistening,  snowy  fold 
At  every  step  it  signs  your  name. 

Thus  guided,  one  might  come  too  close 
Upon  the  slyly-hidden  nest 
Where  Psyche,  with  her  cheek's  cold  rose, 
On  Love's  warm  bosom  lies  at  rest. 


QUATRAINS.  83 


QUATRAINS. 

1. 

DAY  AND  NIGHT. 

"PVA.Y  is  a  snow-white  Dove  of  heaven 

That  from  the  East  glad  message  brings :. 
Night  is  a  stealthy,  evil  Haven, 

Wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  his  black  wings. 

2. 
MAPLE  LEAVES. 

OCTOBER  turned  my  maple's  leaves  to  gold; 
The  most  are  gone  now;   here  and  there  one  lingers 
Soon  these  will  slip  from  out  the  twigs'  weak  hold, 
Like  coins  between  a  dying  miser's  fingers. 


84  INTERLUDES. 

3. 
A  CHILD'S  GRAVE. 

A  LITTLE  mound  with  chipped  headstone, 
The  grass,  ah  me!  uncut  about  the  sward, 

Summer  by  summer  left  alone 
With  one  white  lily  keeping  watch  and  ward. 

4. 
PESSIMIST  AND  OPTIMIST. 

THIS  one  sits  shivering  in  Fortune's  smile, 

Taking  his  joy  with  bated,  doubtful  breath : 

This  other,  gnawed  by  hunger,  all  the  while 

Laughs  in  the  teeth  of  Death. 

5. 
GRACE  AND  STRENGTH. 

MANOAH'S  son,  in  his  blind  rage  malign, 
Tumbling  the  temple  down  upon  his  foes, 

Did  no  such  feat  as  yonder  delicate  vine 
That  day  by  day  untired  holds  up  a  rose. 


QUATRAINS.  85 

6. 

AMONG  THE  PINES. 

FAINT  murmurs  from  the  pine-tops  reach  my  ear, 
As  if  a  harpstring  —  touched  in  some  far  sphere  — 
Vibrating  in  the  lucid  atmosphere, 
Let  the  soft  south-wind  waft  its  music  here. 

7. 
EROM  THE  SPANISH. 

To  him  that  hath,  we  are  told, 
Shall  be  given.     Yes,  by  the  Cross! 
To  the  rich  man  fate  sends  gold, 
To  the  poor  man  loss  on  loss. 

8. 
MOONRISE  AT  SEA. 

UP  from  the  dark  the  moon  begins  to  creep; 
And  now  a  pallid,  haggard  face  lifts  she 
Above  the  water-line:  thus  from  the  deep 
A  drowned  body  rises  solemnly. 


86  INTERLUDES. 

9. 

MASKS. 

BLACK  Tragedy  lets  slip  her  grim  disguise 
And  shows  you  laughing  lips  and  roguish  eyes; 
But  when,  unmasked,  gay  Comedy  appears, 
'T  is  ten  to  one  you  find  the  girl  in  tears. 

10. 
COQUETTE. 

OR  light  or  dark,  or  short  or  tall, 
She  sets  a  springe  to  snare  them  all; 
All 's  one  to  her  —  above  her  fan 
She  'd  make  sweet  eyes  at  Caliban. 

11. 
EPITAPHS. 

"  HONEST  lago."    When  his  breath  was  fled 
Doubtless  these  words  were  carven  at  his  head. 
Such  lying  epitaphs  are  like  a  rose 
That  in  unlovely  earth  takes  root  and  grows. 


QUATRAINS.  87 

12. 

POPULARITY. 

SUCH  kings  of  shreds  have  wooed  and  won  her, 

Such  crafty  knaves  her  kurel  owned, 
It  has  become  almost  an  honor 
Not  to  be  crowned. 

13. 
HUMAN  IGNORANCE. 

WHAT  mortal  knows 
Whence  come  the  tint  and  odor  of  the  rose? 

What  probing  deep 
Has  ever  solved  the  mystery  of  sleep? 

14. 
SPENDTHRIFT. 

THE  fault's  not  mine,  you  understand: 
God  shaped  my  palm  so  I  can  hold 
But  little  water  in  my  hand 
And  not  much  gold. 


88  INTERLUDES. 

15. 

THE  IRON  AGE. 

THE  big-lipped  Sphinx,  with  bent  perplexed  brow, 
Crouches  in  desert  sand,  inert  and  pale, 
Hearing  the  engine's  raucous  scream,  that  now 
Sends  Echo  flying  through  the  Memphian  vale. 

16. 
ON  READING 

GREAT  thoughts  in  crude,  inadequate  verse  set  forth, 
Lose  half  their  preciousness,  and  ever  must. 
Unless  the  diamond  with  its  own  rich  dust 

Be  cut  and  polished,  it  seems  little  worth. 

17. 
THE  ROSE. 

FIXED  to  her  necklace,  like  another  gem, 

A  rose  she  wore  —  the  flower  June  made  for  her ; 

Fairer  it  looked  than  when  upon  the  stem, 
And  must,  indeed,  have  been  much  happier. 


QUATKAINS.  89 

18. 

FROM  EASTERN  SOURCES. 

i. 

IN  youth  my  hair  was  black  as  night, 
My  life  as  white  as  driven  snow: 
As  white  as  snow  my  hair  is  now, 

And  that  is  black  which  once  was  white. 


ii. 

No  wonder  Sajib  wrote  such  verses,  when 
He  had  the  bill  of  nightingale  for  pen; 
Or  that  his  lyrics  were  divine 
Whose  only  ink  was  tears  and  wine. 


in. 

A  POOR  dwarfs  figure,  looming  through  the  dense 
Mists  of  a  mountain,  seemed  a  shape  immense, 
On  seeing  which,  a  giant,  in  dismay, 

Took  to  his  heels  and  ran  away. 


90  INTERLUDES. 

19. 

THE  PARC^). 

IN  their  dark  House  of  Cloud 
The  three  weird  sisters  toil  till  time  be  sped: 
One  unwinds  life;  one  ever  weaves  the  shroud; 

One  waits  to  cut  the  thread. 


FABLE.  91 


FABLE. 

A    CERTAIN  bird  in  a  certain  wood, 

Feeling  the  spring-time  warm  and  good, 
Sang  to  it,  in  melodious  mood. 
On  other  neighboring  branches  stood 
Other  birds  who  heard  his  song : 
Loudly  he  sang,  and  clear  and  strong; 
Sweetly  he  sang,  and  it  stirred  their  gall 
There  should  be  a  voice  so  musical. 
They  said  to  themselves:  "We  must  stop  that  bird, 
He  'a  the  sweetest  voice  was  ever  heard. 
That  rich,  deep  chest-note,  crystal-clear, 
Is  a  mortifying  thing  to  hear. 
We  have  sharper  beaks  and  hardier  wings, 
Yet  we  but  croak  :    this  fellow  sings !  " 


92  INTERLUDES. 

So  they  planned  and  planned,  and  killed  the  bird 
With  the  sweetest  voice  was  ever  heard. 

Passing  his  grave  one  happy  May, 
I  brought  this  English  daisy  away. 
ROME,  1875. 


PALINODE.  93 


PALINODE. 

i. 

TTTHEN  I  was  young  and  light  of  heart 

I  made  sad  songs  with  easy  art: 
Now  I  am  sad,  and  no  more  young, 
My  sorrow  cannot  find  a  tongue. 

ii. 

Pray,  Muses,  since  I  may  not  sing 
Of  Death  or  any  grievous  thing, 
Teach  me  some  joyous  strain,  that  I 
May  mock  my  youth's  hypocrisy! 


V. 
THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS,  ETC. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS, 

ETC. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS. 

A    MAN  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 

And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 

Of  old,  when  I  walked  on  a  rugged  way, 
And  gave  much  work  for  but  little  bread, 
The  Goddess  dwelt  with  me  night  and  day, 
Sat  at  my  table,  haunted  my  bed. 

The  narrow,  mean  attic,  I  see  it  now!  — 
Its  window  o'erlooking  the  city's  tiles, 
The  sunset's  fires,  and  the  clouds  of  snow, 
And  the  river  wandering  miles  and  miles. 


98  THE   FLIGHT  OF  THE    GODDESS. 

Just  one  picture  hung  in  the  room, 
The  saddest  story  that  Art  can  tell  — 
Dante  and  Virgil  in  lurid  gloom 
Watching  the  Lovers  float  through  Hell. 

Wretched  enough  was  I  sometimes, 
Pinched,  and  harassed  with  vain  desires; 
But  thicker  than  clover  sprung  the  rhymes 
As  I  dwelt  like  a  sparrow  among  the  spires. 

Midnight  filled  my  slumbers  with  song; 
Music  haunted  my  dreams  by  day : 
Now  I  listen  and  wait  and  long, 
But  the  Delphian  airs  have  died  away. 

I  wonder  and  wonder  how  it  befell : 

Suddenly  I  had  friends  in  crowds; 

I  bade  the  house-tops  a  long  farewell; 

"  Good  by,"  I  cried,  "  to  the  stars  and  clouds ! 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  THE   GODDESS.  99 

"But  thou,  rare  soul,  that  hast  dwelt  with  me, 
Spirit  of  Poesy !    thou  divine 
Breath  of  the  morning,  thou  shalt  be, 
Goddess !    for  ever  and  ever  mine." 

And  the  woman  I  loved  was  now  my  bride,, 
And  the  house  I  wanted  was  my  own; 
I  turned  to  the  Goddess  satisfied  — 
But  the  Goddess  had  somehow  flown! 

Flown,  and  I  fear  she  will  never  return: 
I  am  much  too  sleek  and  happy  for  her, 
Whose  lovers  must  hunger,  and  waste,  and  burn, 
Ere  the  beautiful  heathen  heart  will  stir ! 

I  call  —  but  she  does  not  stoop  to  my  cry; 
I  wait  —  but  she  lingers,  and  ah!    so  long! 
It  was  not  so  in  the  years  gone  by, 
When  she  touched  my  lips  with  chrism  of  song. 


100  THE   FLIGHT   OF  THE   GODDESS. 

I  swear  I  will  get  me  a  garret  again, 
And  adore,  like  a  Parsee,  the  sunset's  fires, 
And  lure  the  Goddess,  by  vigil  and  pain, 
Up  with  the  sparrows  among  the  spires. 

For  a  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA.     101 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA. 

"OENEATH  the  warrior's  helm,  behold 
The  flowing  tresses  of  the  woman ! 
Minerva,  Pallas,  what  you  will  — 

A  winsome  creature,  Greek  or  Roman. 

Minerva  ?  No !  't  is  some  sly  minx 
In  cousin's  helmet  masquerading ; 

If  not — then  Wisdom  was  a  dame 
For  sonnets  and  for  serenading! 

I  thought  the  goddess  cold,  austere, 

Not  made  for  love's  despairs  and  blisses : 

Did  Pallas  wear  her  hair  like  thatP 

Was  Wisdom's  mouth  so  shaped  for  kisses? 


102  ON   AN   INTAGLIO   HEAD   OF   MINEKVA. 

The  Nightingale  should  be  her  bird, 
And  not  the  Owl,  big-eyed  and  solemn  : 

How  very  fresh  she  looks,  and  yet 
She  's  older  far  than  Trajan's  Column ! 


The  magic  hand  that  carved  this  face, 
And  set  this  vine-work  round  it  running, 

Perhaps  ere  mighty  Phidias  wrought 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  cunning. 

Who  was  he?  Was  he  glad  or  sad, 
Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion? 

Perchance  he  graved  the  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  scorned  his  passion. 

Perchance,  in  some  still  garden-place, 
Where  neither  fount  nor  tree  to-day,  is, 

He  flung  the  jewel  at  the  feet 
Of  Phryne,  or  perhaps  'twas  Lais. 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA.     103 

But  he  is  dust;  we  may  not  know 

His  happy  or  unhappy  story : 
Nameless,  and  dead  these  centuries, 

His  work  outlives  him  —  there  's  his  glory ! 


Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 

Beneath  a  lava-buried  city ; 
The  countless  summers  came  and  went 

With  neither  haste,  nor  hate,  nor  pity.. 

Years  blotted  out  the  man,  but  left 
The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 

Till  some  Visconti  dug  it  up  — 
To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom! 

0  nameless  brother!  see  how  Time 
Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded: 

See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  be  rewarded. 


104  ON   AN   INTAGLIO   HEAD   OF  MINERVA. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate-stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so! 


THE    GUERDON.  105 


THE  GUERDON. 

OOOTHED  by  the  fountain's  drowsy  murmuring  — 

Or  was  it  by  the  west-wind's  indolent  wing  ?  — 
The  grim  court-poet  fell  asleep  one  day 
In  the  lords'  chamber,  when  chance  brought  that  way 
The  Princess  Margaret  with  a  merry  train 
Of  damozels  and  ladies  —  flippant,  vain 
Court-butterflies  —  midst  whom  fair  Margaret 
Swayed  like  a  rathe  and  slender  lily  set 
In  rustling  leaves,  for  all  her  drapery 
Was  green  and  gold,  and  lovely  as  could  be. 

Midway  in  hall  the  fountain  rose  and  fell, 
Filling  a  listless  Naiad's  outstretched  shell 
And  weaving  rainbows  in  the  shifting  light. 
Upon  the  carven  friezes,  left  and  right, 


106  THE   GUERDON. 

Was  pictured  Pan  asleep  beside  his  reed. 

In  this  place  all  things  seemed  asleep,  indeed  — 

The  hook-billed  parrot  on  his  pendent  ring, 

Sitting  high-shouldered,  half  forgot  to  swing; 

The  wind  scarce  stirred  the  hangings  at  the  door, 

And  from  the  silken  arras  evermore 

Yawned  drowsy  dwarfs  with  satyr's  face  and  hoof. 

A  forest  of  gold  pillars  propped  the  roof, 
And  like  one  slim  gold  pillar  overthrown, 
The  sunlight  through  a  great  stained  window  shone 
And  lay  across  the  body  of  Alain. 
You  would  have  thought,  perchance,  the  man  was  slain : 
As  if  the  checkered  column  in  its  fall 
Had  caught  and  crushed  him,  he  lay  dead  to  all. 
The  parrot's  gray  bead  eye  as  good  as  said, 
Unclosing  viciously,  "The  clown  is  dead." 
A  dragon-fly  in  narrowing  circles  neared, 
And  lit,  secure,  upon  the  dead  man's  beard, 
Then  spread  its  iris  vans  in  quick  dismay, 
And  into  the  blue  summer  sped  away ! 


THE    GUERDON.  107 

Little  was  his  of  outward  grace  to  win 
The  eyes  of  maids,  but  white  the  soul  within. 
Misshaped,  and  hideous  to  look  upon 
Was  this  man,  dreaming  in  the  noontide  sun, 
With  sunken  eyes  and  winter-whitened  hair, 
And  sallow  cheeks  deep  seamed  with  thought  and  care. 
And  so  the  laughing  ladies  of  the  court, 
Coming  upon  him  suddenly,  stopped  short, 
And  shrunk  together  with  a  nameless  dread; 
Some,  but  fear  held  them,  would  have  turned  and  fled, 
Seeing  the  uncouth  figure  lying  there. 
But  Princess  Margaret,  with  her  heavy  hair 
From  out  its  diamond  fillet  rippling  down, 
Slipped  from  the  group,  and  plucking  back  her  gown 
With  white  left  hand,  stole  softly  to  his  side  — 
The  fair  court  gossips  staring,  curious-eyed, 
Half  mockingly.     A  little  while  she  stood, 
Finger  on  lip  ;   then,  with  the  agile  blood 
Climbing  her  cheek,  and  silken  lashes  wet  — 
She  scarce  knew  what  vague  pity  or  regret 
Wet  them  —  she  stooped,  and  for  a  moment's  space 


108  THE   GUERDON. 

Her  golden  tresses  touched  the  sleeper's  face. 

Then  she  stood  straight,  as  lily  on  its  stem, 

But  hearing  her  ladies  titter,  turned  on  them 

Her   great   queen's    eyes,    grown   black  with  scornful 

frown  — 

Great  eyes  that  looked  the  shallow  women  down. 
"  Nay,  not  for  love  "  —  one  rosy  palm  she  laid 
Softly  against  her  bosom  —  "as  I  'm  a  maid ! 
Full  well  I  know  what  cruel  things  you  say 
Of  this  and  that,  but  hold  your  peace  to-day. 
I  pray  you  think  no  evil  thing  of  this. 
Nay,  not  for  love's  sake  did  I  give  the  kiss, 
Not  for  his  beauty  who  's  nor  fair  nor  young, 
But  for  the  songs  which  those  mute  lips  have  sung!" 

That  was  a  right  brave  princess,  one,  I  hold, 
Worthy  to  wear  a  crown  of  beaten  gold. 


LOST  AT   SEA.  109 


LOST  AT  SEA. 

'"PHE  face  that  Carlo  Dolci  drew 

Looks  down  from  out  its  leafy  hood  — 
The  holly  berries,  gleaming  through 
The  pointed  leaves,  seem  drops  of  blood. 

Above  the  cornice,  round  the  hearth, 
Are  evergreens  and  spruce-tree  boughs ; 
'T  is  Christmas  morning  :   Christmas  mirth 
And  joyous  voices  fill  the  house. 

I  pause,  and  know  not  what  to  do; 
I  feel  reproach  that  I  am  glad : 
Until  to-day,  no  thought  of  you, 
0  Comrade !   ever  made  me  sad. 


110  LOST   AT   SEA. 

But  now  the  thought  of  your  blithe  heart, 
Your  ringing  laugh,  can  give  me  pain, 
Knowing  that  we  are  worlds  apart, 
Not  knowing  we  shall  meet  again. 

For  all  is  dark  that  lies  in  store  : 
Though  they  may  preach,  the  brotherhood, 
We  know  just  this,  and  nothing  more, 
That  we  are  dust,  and  God  is  good. 


What  life  begins  when  death  makes  end? 
Sleek  gownsman,  is  't  so  very  clear? 
How  fares  it  with  us?  —  0,  my  Friend, 
I  only  know  you  are  not  here ! 


That  I  am  in  a  warm,  light  room, 
With  life  and  love  to  comfort  me, 
While  you  are  drifting  through  the  gloom, 
Beneath  the  sea,  beneath  the  sea ! 


LOST   AT    SEA.  Ill 

O  wild  green  waves  that  lash  the  sands 
Of  Santiago  and  beyond, 
Lift  him,  I  pray,  with  gentle  hands, 
And  bear  him  on  —  true  heart  and  fond  ! 


To  some  still  grotto  far  below 
The  washings  of  the  warm  Gulf  Stream 
Bear  him,  and  let  the  winds  that  blow 
About  the  world  not  break  his  dream  ! 

—  I  smooth  my  brow.     Upon  the  stair 
I  hear  my  children  shout  in  glee, 
With  sparkling  eyes  and  floating  hair, 
Bringing  a  Christmas  wreath  for  me. 

Their  joy,  like  sunshine  deep  and  broad, 
Falls  on  my  heart,  and  makes  me  glad : 
I  think  the  face  of  our  dear  Lord 
Looks  down  on  them,  and  seems  not  sad. 


112  AN   OLD    CASTLE. 


AN  OLD  CASTLE. 

I. 

T^HE  gray  arch  crumbles, 

And  totters,  and  tumbles; 
The  bat  has  built  in  the  banquet  hall. 
In  the  donjon-keep 
Sly  mosses  creep; 

The  ivy  has  scaled  the  southern  wall. 
No  man-at-arms 
Sounds  quick  alarms 
A-top  of  the  cracked  martello  tower. 
The  drawbridge-chain 
Is  broken  in  twain; 
The  bridge  will  neither  rise  nor  lower. 
Not  any  manner 
Of  broidered  banner 


AN   OLD    CASTLE.  113 

Flaunts  at  a  blazoned  herald's  call. 

Lilies  float 

In  the  stagnant  moat; 

And  fair  they  are,  and  tall. 

II. 

Here,  in  the  old 

Forgotten  springs, 

Was  wassail  held  by  queens  and  kings; 

Here  at  the  board 

Sat  clown  and  lord, 

Maiden  fair  and  lover  bold, 

Baron  fat  and  minstrel  lean, 

The  prince  with  his  stars, 

The  knight  with  his  scars, 

The  priest  in  his  gabardine. 

III. 

Where  is  she 

Of  the  fleur-de-lys, 

And  that  true  knight  who  wore  her  gages  ? 


114  AN    OLD    CASTLE. 

Where  are  the  glances 

That  bred  wild  fancies 

In  curly  heads  of  my  lady's  pages? 

Where  are  those 

Who,  in  steel  or  hose, 

Held  revel  here,  and  made  them  gay? 

Where  is  the  laughter 

That  shook  the  rafter  — 

Where  is  the  rafter,  by  the  way? 

Gone  is  the  roof, 

And  perched  aloof 

Is  an  owl,  like  a  friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

(Perhaps  'tis  the  priest 

Come  back  to  feast  — 

He  had  ever  a  tooth  for  capon,  he! 

But  the  capon's  cold, 

And  the  steward's  old, 

And  the  butler 's  lost  the  larder-key !) 

The  doughty  lords 

Sleep  the  sleep  of  swords. 


AN   OLD   CASTLE.  115 

Dead  are  the  dames  and  damozels. 

The  King  in  his  crown 

Hath  laid  him  down, 

And  the  Jester  with  his  bells. 

IV. 

All  is  dead  here: 
Poppies  are  red  here, 
Vines  in  my  lady's  chamber  grow  — 
If  'twas  her  chamber 
Where  they  clamber 
Up  from  the  poisonous  weeds  below. 
All  is  dead  here, 
Joy  is  fled  here; 

Let  us  hence.     'Tis  the  end  of  all  — 
The  gray  arch  crumbles, 
And  totters,  and  tumbles, 
And  Silence  sits  in  the  banquet  hall. 


116  IN    AN   ATELIER. 


IN  AN  ATELIER. 

T  PEAT  you,  do  not  turn  your  head; 
And  let  your  hands  lie  folded,  so. 
It  was  a  dress  like  this,  wine-red, 
That  Dante  liked  so,  long  ago. 
You  don't  know  Dante?    Never  mind. 
He  loved  a  lady  wondrous  fair — 
His  model?     Something  of  the  kind. 
I  wonder  if  she  had  your  hair! 

I  wonder  if  she  looked  so  meek, 
And  was  not  meek  at  all  (my  dear, 
I  want  that  side  light  on  your  cheek). 
He  loved  her,  it  is  very  clear, 
And  painted  her,  as  I  paint  you, 
But  rather  better,  on  the  whole 


IN   AN   ATELIER.  117 

(Depress  your  chin ;  yes,  that  will  do) : 
He  was  a  painter  of  the  soul! 

(And  painted  portraits,  too,  I  think, 
In  the  INFEKNO  —  devilish  good! 
I'd  make  some  certain  critics  blink 
If  I'd  his  method  and  his  mood.) 
Her  name  was  (Fanny,  let  your  glance 
Best  there,  by  that  majolica  tray)  — 
Was  Beatrice;  they  met  by  chance  — 
They  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way. 

(As  you  and  I  met,  months  ago, 
Do  you  remember?     How  your  feet 
"Went  crinkle-crinkle  on  the  snow 
Along  the  bleak  gas-lighted  street ! 
An  instant  in  the  drug-store's  glare 
You  stood  as  in  a  golden  frame, 
And  then  I  swore  it,  then  and  there, 
To  hand  your  sweetness  down  to  fame.) 


118  IN   AN   ATELIER. 

They  met,  and  loved,  and  never  wed 
(All  this  was  long  before  our  time), 
And  though  they  died,  they  are  not  dead- 
Such  endless  youth  gives  mortal  rhyme ! 
Still  walks  the  earth,  with  haughty  mien, 
Great  Dante,  in  his  soul's  distress; 
And  still  the  lovely  Florentine 
Goes  lovely  in  her  wine-red  dress. 

You  do  not  understand  at  all  ? 

He  was  a  poet;  on  his  page 

He  drew  her;  and,  though  kingdoms  fall, 

This  lady  lives  from  age  to  age: 

A  poet  —  that  means  painter  too, 

For  words  are  colors,  rightly  laid; 

And  they  outlast  our  brightest  hue, 

For  varnish  cracks  and  crimsons  fade. 

The  poets  —  they  are  lucky  ones ! 
When  we  are  thrust  upon  the  shelves, 
Our  works  turn  into  skeletons 


IN   AN   ATELIER.  119 

Almost  as  quickly  as  ourselves; 

For  our  poor  canvas  peels  at  length, 

At  length  is  prized  —  when  all  is  bare : 

"What  grace!"  the  critics  cry,  "what  strength!" 

When  neither  strength  nor  grace  is  there. 

Ah,  Fanny,  I  am  sick  at  heart, 
It  is  so  little  one  can  do; 
We  talk  our  jargon  —  live  for  Art  h 
I'd  much  prefer  to  live  for  you. 
How  dull  and  lifeless  colors  are !" 
You  smile,  and  all  my  picture  lies : 
I  wish  that  I  could  crush  a  star 
To  make  a  pigment  for  your  eyes. 

Yes,  child,  I  know  I'm  out  of  tune; 

The  light  is  bad;  the  sky  is  gray: 

I'll  paint  no  more  this  afternoon, 

So  lay  your  royal  gear  away. 

Besides,  you're  moody  —  chin  on  hand  — 

I  know  not  what  —  not  in  the  vein  — 


120  IN   AN   ATELIER. 

Not  Anue  Bullen,  sweet  and  bland: 
You  sit  there  looking  like  Elaine. 

Not  like  Bluff  Harry's  radiant  Queen, 
Unconscious  of  the  coming  woe, 
But  rather  as  she  might  have  been, 
Preparing  for  the  headsman's  blow. 
I  see!  I've  put  you  in  a  miff — 
Sitting  bolt-upright,  wrist  on  wrist. 
How  should  you  look?    Why,  dear,  as  if- 
Somehow  —  as  if  you  'd  just  been  kissed  ! 


THE  WORLD'S  WAY.  121 


THE  WOELD'S  WAY. 


\  T  Haroun's  court  it  chanced,  upon  a  time, 
An  Arab  poet  made  this  pleasant  rhyme: 


"  The  new  moon  is  a  horseshoe,  wrought  of  God, 
Wherewith  the  Sultan's  stallion  shall  be  shod."1 

On  hearing  this,  his  highness  smiled,  and  gave 
The  man  a  gold-piece.     Sing  again,  0  slave! 

Above  his  lute  the  happy  singer  bent, 
And  turned  another  gracious  compliment. 

And,  as  before,  the  smiling  Sultan  gave 
The  man  a  sekkah.     Sing  again,  0  slave ! 

1  Variation  of  a  couplet  in  Alger's  "  Poetry  of  the  East." 


122  THE  WORLD'S  WAY. 

Again  the  verse  came,  fluent  as  a  rill 
That  wanders,  silver-footed,  down  a  hill. 

The  Sultan,  listening,  nodded  as  before, 
Still  gave  the  gold,  and  still  demanded  more. 

The  nimble  fancy  that  had  climbed  so  high 
Grew  weary  with  its  climbing  by  and  by : 

Strange  discords  rose;  the  sense  went  quite  amiss; 
The  singer's  rhymes  refused  to  meet  and  kiss: 

Invention  flagged,  the  lute  had  got  unstrung, 
And  twice  he  sang  the  song  already  sung. 

The  Sultan,  furious,  called  a  mute,  and  said, 
0  Musta,  straightway  whip  me  off  his  head ! 

Poets!  not  in  Arabia  alone 

You  get  beheaded  when  your  skill  is  gone. 


TITA'S  TEAES.  123 


TITA'S  TEAES. 

A  FANTASY. 

A    CERTAIN  man  of  Ischia  —  it  is  thus 
The  story  runs  —  one  Lydus  Claudius, 
After  a  life  of  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Passed  suddenly  from  out  the  world  of  men 
Into  the  world  of  shadows. 

In  a  vale 

Where  shoals  of  spirits  against  the  moonlight  pale 
Surged  ever  upward,  in  a  wan-lit  place 
Near  heaven,  he  met  a  Presence  face  to  face  — 
A  figure  like  a  carving  on  a  spire, 
Shrouded  in  wings  and  with  a  fillet  of  fire 
About  the  brows  —  who  stayed  him  there,  and  said 
"  This  the  gods  grant  to  thee,  0  newly  dead ! 
Whatever  thing  on  earth  thou  boldest  dear 


124  TITA'S  TEAES. 

Shall,  at  thy  bidding,  be  transported  here, 

Save  wife  or  child,  or  any  living  thing." 

Then  straightway  Claudius  fell  to  wondering 

What  he  should  wish  for.     Having  heaven  at  hand, 

His  wants  were  few,  as  you  can  understand. 

Biches  and  titles,  matters  dear  to  us, 

To  him,  of  course,  were  now  superfluous : 

But  Tita,  small  brown  Tita,  his  young  wife, 

A  two  weeks'  bride  when  he  took  leave  of  life, 

What  would  become  of  her  without  his  care? 

Tita,  so  rich,  so  thoughtless,  and  so  fair ! 

At  present  crushed  with  sorrow,  to  be  sure  — 

But  by  and  by?     What  earthly  griefs  endure? 

They  pass  like  joys.     A  year,  three  years  at  most, 

And  would  she  mourn  her  lord,  so  quickly  lost? 

With  fine,  prophetic  ear,  he  heard  afar 

The  tinkling  of  some  horrible  guitar 

Under  her  balcony.     "  Such  thing  could  be," 

Sighed  Claudius ;  "  I  would  she  were  with  me, 

Safe  from  all  harm."     But  as  that  wish  was  vain, 

He  let  it  drift  from  out  his  troubled  brain 


TITA'S  TEAKS.  125 

(His  highly  trained  austerity  was  such 

That  self-denial  never  cost  him  much), 

And  strove  to  think  what  object  he  might  name 

Most  closely  liuked  with  the  bereaved  dame. 

Her  wedding  ring  ?  —  't  would  be  too  small  to  wear ; 

Perhaps  a  ringlet  of  her  raven  hair? 

If  not,  her  portrait,  done  in  cameo, 

Or  on  a  background  of  pale  gold?     But  no, 

Such  trifles  jarred  with  his  severity. 

At  length  he  thought :  "  The  thing  most  meet  for  me 

Would  be  that  antique  flask  wherein  my  bride 

Let  fall  her  heavy  tears  the  night  I  died." 

(It  was  a  custom  of  that  simple  day 

To  have  one's  tears  sealed  up  and  kid  away, 

As  everlasting  tokens  of  regret  — 

They  find  the  bottles  in  Greek  ruins  yet.) 

For  this  he  wished,  then. 

Swifter  than  a  thought 

The  Presence  vanished,  and  the  flask  was  brought  — 
Slender,  bell-mouthed,  and  painted  all  around 
With  jet-black  tulips  on  a  saffron  ground; 


126  TITA'S  TEARS. 

A  tiny  jar,  of  porcelain  if  you  will, 
Which  twenty  tears  would  rather  more  than  fill. 
With  careful  fingers  Claudius  broke  the  seal 
When,  suddenly,  a  well-known  merry  peal 
Of  laughter  leapt  from  out  the  vial's  throat, 
And  died,  as  dies  the  wood-bird's  distant  note. 
Claudius  stared;  then,  struck  with  strangest  fears, 
Keversed  the  flask  — 

Alas,  for  Tita's  tears! 


THE  KING'S  WINE.  127 


THE  KING'S  WINE. 

'T'HE  small  green  grapes  in  countless  clusters  grew, 

Feeding  on  mystic  moonlight  and  white  dew 
And  mellow  sunshine,  the  long  summer  through : 

Till,  with  faint  tremor  in  her  veins,  the  vine 

Felt  the  delicious  pulses  of  the  wine; 

And  the  grapes  ripened  in  the  year's  decline. 

And  day  by  day  the  Virgins  watched  their  charge; 
And  when,  at  last,  beyond  the  horizon's  marge, 
The  harvest  moon  drooped  beautiful  and  large, 

The  subtile  spirit  in  the  grape  was  caught, 
And  to  the  slowly  dying  monarch  brought 
In  a  great  cup  fantastically  wrought. 


128  THE  KING'S  WINE. 

Of  this  he  drank;    then  straightway  from  his  brain 

Went  the  weird  malady,  and  once  again 

He  walked  the  Palace,  free  of  scar  or  pain  — 

But  strangely  changed,  for  somehow  he  had  lost 

Body  and  voice :  the  courtiers,  as  he  crossed 

The  royal  chambers,  whispered  —  The  King's  ghost ! 


DIRGE.  129 


DIEGE. 

T  ET  us  keep  him  warm, 

Stir  tlie  dying  fire: 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

Soon,  ah,  very  soon 
We  too  shall  not  know 
Either  sun  or  moon, 
Either  grass  or  snow. 

Others  in  our  place 
Come  to  laugh  and  weep, 
Win  or  lose  the  race, 
And  to  fall  asleep. 


130  DIRGE. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire: 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 


What  does  all  avail — 
Love,  or  power,  or  gold? 
Life  is  like  a  tale 
Ended  ere  'tis  told. 


Much  is  left  unsaid, 
Much  is  said  in  vain  — 
Shall  the  broken  thread 
Be  taken  up  again? 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire: 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 


DIEGB. 

Kisses  one  or  two 
On  his  eyelids  set, 
That,  when  all  is  through, 
He  may  not  forget. 

He  has  far  to  go  — 
Is  it  East  or  West? 
Whither?    Who  may  know! 
Let  him  take  his  rest. 


Wind,  and  snow,  and  sleet- 
So  the  long  night  dies. 
Draw  the  winding-sheet, 
Cover  up  his  eyes. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire: 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 


132        THE    PIAZZA   OF    ST.    MAEK   AT   MIDNIGHT. 


THE  PIAZZA  OF  ST.  MAEK  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

TTUSHED  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices ; 

Gone  is  the  crowd  of  dusky  promenaders  — 
Slender-waisted,  almond-eyed  Venetians, 
Princes  and  paupers.     Not  a  single  footfall 
Sounds  in  the  arches  of  the  Procuratie. 
One  after  one,  like  sparks  in  cindered  paper, 
Faded  the  lights  out  in  the  goldsmiths'  windows. 
Drenched  with  the  moonlight  lies  the  still  Piazza. 

Fair  as  the  palace  builded  for  Aladdin, 

Yonder  St.  Mark  uplifts  its  sculptured  splendor  — 

Intricate  fretwork,  Byzantine  mosaic, 

Color  on  color,  column  upon  column, 

Barbaric,  wonderful,  a  thing  to  kneel  to  ! 

Over  the  portal  stand  the  four  gilt  horses, 


THE   PIAZZA   OF   ST.    MARK  AT   MIDNIGHT.        133 

Gilt  hoof  in  air,  and  wide  distended  nostril, 

Fiery,  untamed,  as  in  the  days  of  Nero. 

Skyward,  a  cloud  of  domes  and  spires  and  crosses ; 

Earthward,  black  shadows  flung  from  jutting  stone-work. 

High  over  all  the  slender  Campanile 

Quivers,  and  seems  a  falling  shaft  of  silver! 

Hushed  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices. 

From  coigne  and  cornice  and  fantastic  gargoyle, 

At  intervals  the  moan  of  dove  or  pigeon, 

Fairily  faint,  floats  off  into  the  moonlight. 

This,  and  the  murmur  of  the  Adriatic, 

Lazily  restless,  lapping  the  mossed  marble, 

Staircase  or  buttress,  scarcely  break  the  stillness. 

Deeper  each  moment  seems  to  grow  the  silence, 

Denser  the  moonlight  in  the  still  Piazza. 

Hark !   on  the  Tower  above  the  ancient  gateway, 

The  twin  bronze  Vulcans,  with  their  ponderous  hammers, 

Hammer  the  midnight  on  their  brazen  bell  there ! 


134  THOEWALDSEN. 


THORWALDSEN. 

"1 T  TE  often  fail  by  searching  far  and  wide 

For  what  lies  close  at  hand.    To  serve  our  turn 
We  ask  fair  wind  and  favorable  tide. 
From  the  dead  Danish  sculptor  let  us  learn 
To  make  Occasion,  not  to  be  denied : 
Against  the  sheer,  precipitous  mountain-side 
Thorwaldsen  carved  his  Lion  at  Lucerne. 


VI. 

SONNETS. 


SONNETS. 


"EVEN  THIS  WILL  PASS  AWAY." 

nPOUCHED  with  the  delicate  green  of  early  May, 

Or  later,  when  the  rose  unveils  her  face, 
The  world  hangs  glittering  in  star-strown  space, 
Fresh  as  a  jewel  found  but  yesterday. 
And  yet  't  is  very  old;  what  tongue  may  say 
How  old  it  is?     Race  follows  upon  race, 
Forgetting  and  forgotten;  in  their  place 
Sink  tower  and  temple;  nothing  long  may  stay. 
"We  build  on  tombs,  and  live  our  day,  and  die; 
From  out  our  dust  new  towers  and  temples  start ; 

Our  very  name  becomes  a  mystery. 
What  cities  no  man  ever  heard  of  lie 

Under  the  glacier,  in  the  mountain's  heart, 
In  violet  glooms  beneath  the  moaning  sea! 


138  SONNETS. 


AT  STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

TO  EDWIN  BOOTH. 

THETIS  spake  his  dust  (so  seemed  it  as  I  read 

The  words) :  Good  frend,  for  Jesvs'  sake  forbeare 
(Poor  ghost!)  To  digg  the  dvst  enclosed  heare  — 
Then  came  the  malediction  on  the  head 
Of  who  so  dare  disturb  the  sacred  dead. 

Outside  the  mavis  whistled  strong  and  clear, 
And,  touched  with  the  sweet  glamour  of  the  year, 
The  winding  Avon  murmured  in  its  bed. 
But  in  the  solemn  Stratford  church  the  air 

Was  chill  and  dank,  and  on  the  foot-worn  tomb 

The  evening  shadows  deepened  momently: 
Then  a  great  awe  crept  on  me,  standing  there, 
As  if  some  speechless  Presence  in  the  gloom 
Was  hovering,  and  fain  would  speak  with  me. 


THEEE   FLOWERS.  139 


THEEE  FLOWERS. 

TO  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

TTEBEWITH   I   send    you   three   pressed   withered 

flowers : 

This  one  was  white,  with  golden  star;  this,  blue 
As  Capri's  cave;  that,  purple  and  shot  through 
With  sunset-orange.    Where  the  Duomo  towers 

In  diamond  air,  and  under  hanging  bowers 
The  Arno  glides,  this  faded  violet  grew 
On  Landor's  grave;  from  Landor's  heart  it  drew 
Its  magic  azure  in  the  long  spring  hours. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramid 
Of  Caius  Cestius  was  the  daisy  found, 
White  as  the  soul  of  Keats  in  Paradise. 

The  pansy  —  there  were  hundreds  of  them,  hid 
In  the  thick  grass  that  folded  Shelley's  mound, 
Guarding  his  ashes  with  most  lovely  eyes. 


140  SONNETS. 


AN  ALPINE  PICTURE. 

QTAND  here  and  look,  and  softly  hold  your  breath 

Lest  the  vast  avalanche  come  crashing  down ! 
How  many  miles  away  is  yonder  town 
Set  flower- wise  in  the  valley?     Far  beneath  — 
A  scimitar  half  drawn  from  out  its  sheath  — 
The  river  curves  through  meadows  newly  mown; 
The  ancient  water-courses  are  all  strown 
With  drifts  of  snow,  fantastic  wreath  on  wreath; 
And  peak  on  peak  against  the  turquoise-blue 
The  Alps  like  towering  campanili  stand, 

"Wondrous,  with  pinnacles  of  frozen  rain, 
Silvery,  crystal,  like  the  prism  in  hue. 
0  tell  me,  Love,  if  this  be  Switzerland  — 
Or  is  it  but  the  frost-work  on  the  pane? 


TO    LAUNT   THOMPSON    IN    FLORENCE.  141 


TO  LAUNT  THOMPSON  IN  FLORENCE. 

"\7"OU  by  the  Arno  shape  your  marble  dream, 

Under  the  cypress  and  the  olive  trees, 
While  I,  this  side  the  wild,  wind-beaten  seas, 
Unrestful  by  the  Charles's  placid  stream, 
Long  once  again  to  catch  the  golden  gleam 
Of  Brunelleschi's  dome,  and  lounge  at  ease 
In  those  pleached  gardens  and  fair  galleries. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  you  envy  me,  and  deem 
My  star  the  happier,  since  it  holds  me  here. 
Even  so,  one  time,  beneath  the  cypresses 

My  heart  turned  longingly  across  the  sea, 
Aching  with  love  for  thee,  New  England  dear ! 
And  I  'd  have  given  all  Titian's  goddesses 
For  one  poor  cowslip  or  anemone. 


142  SONNETS. 


ENGLAND. 

TT7HILE  men  pay  reverence  to  mighty  things, 

They  must  revere  thee,  thou  blue-cinctured  isle 
Of  England  —  not  to-day,  but  this  long  while 
In  the  front  of  nations,  Mother  of  great  kings, 
Soldiers,  and  poets.     Eound  thee  the  Sea  flings 
His  steel-bright  arm,  and  shields  thee  from  the  guile 
And  hurt  of  France.     Secure,  with  august  smile, 
Thou  sittest,  and  the  East  its  tribute  brings. 
Some  say  thy  old-time  power  is  on  the  wane, 
Thy  moon  of  grandeur  filled,  contracts  at  length  — 

They  see  it  darkening  down  from  less  to  less. 
Let  but  a  hostile  hand  make  threat  again, 

And  they  shall  see  thee  in  thy  ancient  strength, 
Each  iron  sinew  quivering,  lioness  ! 


ENAMORED   ARCHITECT  OF   AIRY  RHYME.         143 


ENAMORED  ARCHITECT  OP  AIRY  RHYME. 

T7NAMOKED  architect  of  airy  rhyme, 

Build  as  thou  wilt;  heed  not  what  each  man  says. 
Good  souls,  but  innocent  of  dreamers'  ways, 
Will  come,  and  marvel  why  thou  wastest  time; 
Others,  beholding  how  thy  turrets  climb 

'Twixt  theirs  and  heaven,  will  hate  thee  all  their  days ; 
But  most  beware  of  those  who  come  to  praise. 
O  Wondersmith,  0  worker  in  sublime 
And  heaven-sent  dreams,  let  art  be  all  in  all; 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  unspoiled  by  praise  or  blame, 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  and  as  thy  light  is  given : 
Then,  if  at  last  the  airy  structure  fall, 

Dissolve,  and  vanish  —  take  thyself  no  shame. 
They  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  striven. 


144  SONNETS. 


HENEY  HOWAED  BEOWNELL. 


T^HEY  never  crowned  him,  never  knew  his  worth, 

But  let  him  go  unlaurelled  to  the  grave  : 
Hereafter  there  are  guerdons  for  the  brave, 
Roses  for  martyrs  who  wear  thorns  on  earth, 
Balms  for  bruised  hearts  that  languish  in  the  dearth 
Of  human  love.     So  let  the  lilies  wave 
Above  him,  nameless.     Little  did  he  crave 
Men's  praises.     Modestly,  with  kindly  mirth, 
Not  sad  nor  bitter,  he  accepted  fate  — 

Drank  deep  of  life,  knew  books,  and  hearts  of  men, 

Cities  and  camps,  and  war's  immortal  woe, 
Yet  bore  through  all  (such  virtue  in  him  sate 
His  Spirit  is  not  whiter  now  than  then!) 
A  simple,  loyal  nature,  pure  as  snow. 


BARBEEKIES.  145 


BAEBERRIES. 

TN  scarlet  clusters  o'er  the  gray  stone-wall 

The  barberries  lean  in  thin  autumnal  air: 
Just  when  the  fields  and  garden-plots  are  bare, 
And  ere  the  green  leaf  takes  the  tint  of  fall, 
They  come,  to  make  the  eye  a  festival! 
Along  the  road,  for  miles,  their  torches  flare. 
Ah,  if  your  deep-sea  coral  were  but  rare 
(The  damask  rose  might  envy  it  withal), 
What  bards  had  sung  your  praises  long  ago, 

Called  you  fine  names  in  honey-worded  books  — 

The  rosy  tramps  of  turnpike  and  of  lane, 
September's  blushes,  Ceres'  lips  aglow, 

Little  Eed-Kidinghoods,  for  your  sweet  looks  !  — 
But  your  plebeian  beauty  is  in  vain. 


146  SONNETS. 


THE  LOEELEL 

A  HEINE   LEGEND. 

"\70NDER  we  see  it  from  the  steamer's  deck, 

The  haunted  Mountain  of  the  Lorelei  — 
The  o'erhanging  crags  sharp-cut  against  a  sky 
Clear  as  a  sapphire  without  flaw  or  fleck. 
'Twas  here  the  Siren  lay  in  wait  to  wreck 
The  fisher-lad.     At  dusk,  as  he  passed  by, 
Perchance  he  'd  hear  her  tender  amorous  sigh, 
And,  seeing  the  wondrous  whiteness  of  her  neck, 
Perchance  would  halt,  and  lean  towards  the  shore; 
Then  she  by  that  soft  magic  which  she  had 

Would  lure  him,  and  in  gossamers  of  her  hair, 
Gold  upon  gold,  would  wrap  him  o'er  and  o'er, 
Wrap  him,  and  sing  to  him,  and  set  him  mad, 
Then  drag  him  down  to  no  man  knoweth  where. 


THE   BARITY   OF   GENIUS.  147 


THE  RARITY  OF  GENIUS. 

TTTHILE    yet    my  lip  was  breathing  youth's   first 
breath, 

Too  young  to  feel  the  utmost  of  their  spell 

I  saw  Medea  and  Phaedra  in  Rachel : 

Later  I  saw  the  great  Elizabeth. 
Rachel,  Ristori  —  we  shall  taste  of  death 

Ere  we  meet  spirits  like  these:  in  one  age  dwell 

Not  many  such;   a  century  may  tell 

Its  hundred  beads  before  it  braid  a  wreath 
For  two  so  queenly  foreheads.     If  it  take 

.ZEons  to  form  a  diamond,  grain  on  grain, 
Mons  to  crystallize  its  fire  and  dew  — 
By  what  slow  processes  must  Nature  make 

Her  Shakespeares  and  her  Raffaels  ?     Great  the  gain 
If  she  spoil  thousands  making  one  or  two. 


148  SONNETS. 


SLEEP. 

"IT THEN  to  soft  Sleep  we  give  ourselves  away, 

And  in  a  dream  as  in  a  fairy  bark 
Drift  on  and  on  through  the  enchanted  dark 
To  purple  daybreak  —  little  thought  we  pay 
To  that  sweet  bitter  world  we  know  by  day. 
We  are  clean  quit  of  it,  as  is  a  lark 
So  high  in  heaven  no  human  eye  may  mark 
The  thin  swift  pinion  cleaving  through  the  gray. 
Till  we  awake  ill  fate  can  do  no  ill, 

The  resting  heart  shall  not  take  up  again 

The  heavy  load  that  yet  must  make  it  bleed; 
For  this  brief  space  the  loud  world's  voice  is  still, 
No  faintest  echo  of  it  brings  us  pain. 

How  will  it  be  when  we  shall  sleep  indeed? 


'T*AKE  them  and  keep  them, 
Silvery  thorn  and  flower, 
Plucked  just  at  random 

In  the  rosy  weather  — 
Snowdrops  and  pansies, 

Sprigs  of  wayside  heather, 
And  five-leaved  wild-rose 

Dead  within  an  hour. 

Take  them  and  keep  them: 

Who  can  tell?  some  day,  dear, 
(Though  they  be  withered, 

Flower  and  thorn  and  blossom,) 
Held  for  an  instant 

Up  against  thy  bosom, 
They  might  make  December 

Seem  to  thee  like  May,  dear! 


. 


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